


i've waited and watered my heart till it grew, you can see how it's blossomed for you

by meronicavars



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice
Genre: Character Study, Chess, M/M, Post-Canon, justice league whomst?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-07
Updated: 2018-07-07
Packaged: 2019-06-06 19:03:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15201392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meronicavars/pseuds/meronicavars
Summary: in which clark is alive and bruce has a lowkey mid-life crisis.





	i've waited and watered my heart till it grew, you can see how it's blossomed for you

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote this half asleep, on the bus to school, and in class. happy birthday, rachel. ily. 
> 
> i... honestly barely remember bvs, and i'm stuck in dorky batman 89 bruce land tbqh. i think i reference batman 66 at one point ??? idk i have a lot of bruce wayne feels and this came out in this and i told rachel i was just doing superbat lmfao. whoops.

Bruce decides against saying,  _ “I thought you were dead”, _ because it’s become such a clichéd phrase in his life now, it feels utterly redundant. It also sounds stupid to say to a literal alien from another planet who’s impervious to pretty much everything, but he did actually think Clark was dead. The real kicker, though, is the guilt. It seemed like a damn good death; Bruce was not expecting to have that guilt facing him in his library in all its small town, all-American, non-prescription glasses, sweater vest (Jesus, he’s wearing a sweater vest), risen from the dead glory. Some kind of nerdy, alien phoenix. 

 

Bruce knows of course that after everything (secret societies, spandex-clad supervillains, spandex-clad superheroes, spandex-clad thieves-turned allies-turned lovers with a pointed interest in all things feline, and of course being brainwashed by the face of technological capitalism), he shouldn’t be surprised anymore. He shouldn’t expect people to just  _ stay dead _ . That, of course, would be too much to ask of the universe. Not that he wants Clark to stay dead of course--he’s utterly, brilliantly, reverently overjoyed that Clark is there and real and  _ tangible _ \--, Bruce just wishes things could be simple sometimes. 

 

He misses simplicities, however faded the memories of them are. Simplicity was before his parents were murdered in front of him. Before he was trained to be a perfect physical specimen for violence by an international assassin. Before Batman.

 

Before Clark. 

 

_ “I thought you were dead” _ isn’t just a pointless statement, it raises too many complications that Bruce is too exhausted to deal with in this moment. Right now, all he wants is to revel in the fact that his friend--or, rather, someone who could’ve been a friend and maybe now actually can be--is alive. 

 

So, by way of hello, and for the need of the mundane, Bruce says, “I like your sweater vest.”

 

Clark quirks a small grin at him, and slides his glasses up his nose from where they’d slipped down the bridge. 

 

“I should take you to my tailor,” Bruce says, and leads Clark over to a small table with a chessboard already set up. “Get you a nice suit.”

 

He pulls out a chair for Clark (he is nothing if not chivalrous, of course), and Clark sits.

 

“Who’s your tailor?” Clark asks.

 

“Alfred,” Bruce says, and sits down himself. “Do you play?” he continuous, gesturing to the board.

 

“Not really.”

 

“It’s good,” says Bruce. “Helps you learn strategy, helps you to think on your feet.”

 

“Fair practice for folks in our line of work then,” Clark says.

 

“I’m not a reporter,” Bruce deadpans and then presses his lips into a thin smile.

 

Clark laughs.

 

As a child, Bruce played chess with Alfred. As an adult, he played chess with Dick. Which reminds him, for all intents and purposes, he is a single father whose child has flown the nest; and God, does that make him feel old and… lonely. He feels lonely. These days, he looks down at the chessboard ready to be played and he feels devastatingly lonely--he never had the time, nor the self-possession to feel it before, but it’s so painfully obvious: Bruce Wayne is a tired, lonely, old man who dresses up in a kevlar bat suit and beats up criminals and the only person he ever really talks to who truly knows him nowadays, is Alfred. One person. Dick is busy. Jason is a crime boss. And Selina is… Selina. 

 

He looks at Clark, who is looking at him like he knows exactly what Bruce is thinking. Which is disarming, because this is Superman, and he isn’t entirely sure Kryptonians can’t read minds.

 

Suddenly, this game of chess doesn’t feel quite so simple. 

 

“Are you okay?” Clark asks, his glasses slipping down his nose again, and he resigns to taking them off, folding them and placing them on the table.

 

“Long day is all,” Bruce lies, and rises, turning his back on Clark.

 

“Look, I know--”

 

Bruce spins back around on his heel and interrupts, “hey, do you wanna see my katana collection?”

 

“Uh--”

 

“Or Shakespeare’s lost folio?”

 

“Well, I--”

 

“I have a five hundred year old set of armour, if you’re interested.”

 

“Bruce--”

 

“You know, I think I have a first edition of  _ Breakfast at Tiffany's _ .”

 

Bruce crosses the room quickly and starts scanning the shelves in earnest. Clark is hot on his trail, Bruce’s name an anxious chant on his lips.

 

“Bruce, Bruce, stop,” he says, trying to still Bruce’s hands from waving frantically over the rows and rows of books. 

 

“I have so many things,” Bruce mutters, when his hands are clasped safely in Clark’s.

 

“I know,” Clark says, and then wraps his arms around Bruce tight.

 

Bruce hesitates a moment, taken aback. He doesn’t think he’s hugged anyone since Dick moved out. Years. It’s been years and Christ, he  _ needed _ this. The pressure grounding him, the feel of another person to remind him he’s real. This is the simplicity he needed. The oh so easy stillness of just standing and hugging.

 

Bruce hugs back. Grips desperately at Clark’s stupid sweater vest, wool scratchy but he can barely tell through the calluses on his hands. He wishes he’d just take it off--which is an entirely brand new train of thought. He buries his nose into the collar of Clark’s shirt and then moves up to his neck tentatively and just… breathes in. 

 

“We’re good,” Clark says, a hand coming up to rest on Bruce’s neck, a thumb sliding over Bruce’s jaw. “We’re okay.”

 

And Bruce realizes Clark needs this as much as he does. Different reasons, different circumstances, but they were both (obviously) affected by Clark’s apparent death. A death that connected them and entwined their lives for good. And even if Clark wasn’t alive, he’d still be a tattoo over scars on Bruce’s being, but he is alive. He’s real, he’s real.

 

And so is Bruce.

 

Bruce decides to take a chance and kisses Clark. Well, he doesn’t really think about it. He does it on impulse. The closeness gets to him, and he feels a surge of unbridled affection and just kisses him.

 

He had a date with Vicki Vale the other day. They’d had dinner, kissed, and called it a night. It was nice. He liked her. But she’s only the first reporter he’s kissed this week.

 

With Clark, it’s like the hug. Needed and verging on passionate. 

 

Finally, he pulls away and chances a look in Clark’s eyes. Clark smiles at him with swollen kissed lips and strokes a hand over his cheekbone. 

 

“Are you alright?”

 

“Yeah,” Bruce says honestly, breathing heavy. “Yeah, I’m good.”

 

“Good.”

 

“I lied before,” Bruce says, and Clark tilts his head quizzically. “I hate the sweater vest.”


End file.
